Chapter 11
Warmth covers my back, out of place in my cold apartment. I blink awake, muscles tensing before memory of being inside Gabriel floods back, of his tears on my tongue, and of falling asleep with his arm around me.
The expected panic doesn’t come. Instead, a strange calm settles over me as his breath tickles the back of my neck.
His arm drapes over my waist, heavy but not confining, and his knee hooks over my thigh, tangling our legs beneath the thin blanket. The contact should trigger my flight response, should send me scrambling for distance.
It doesn’t.
I remain still, cataloging the sensations. The steady rise and fall of Gabriel’s chest against my back. The pleasant soreness in muscles I haven’t used this way in a long time. The settled heaviness in my bones, like gravity doubled overnight and now pins me to the mattress.
This isn’t the artificial calm that comes during a job, when my senses sharpen to predatory focus and the world narrows to target points. This is quieter. Gentler. It lingers in the aftermath rather than burning out in a flash of violence.
Behind me, Gabriel’s breathing changes, the rhythm shifting from sleep to wakefulness. His fingers twitch on my stomach, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t try to tighten his hold, either. He waits, letting me decide whether this closeness continues or ends.
I roll onto my back, and his arm lifts to accommodate the movement before settling across my chest.
“Morning,” he rasps, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a cautious half-curve.
The sunlight streaming through the blinds casts stripes across him, highlighting the stubble on his jaw and the small bruise forming where my teeth scraped his neck last night. The sight stirs heat low in my belly.
Gabriel rises onto his elbow, his attention dropping to the bruises on my ribs, dark purple marring my olive-hued skin. His focus shifts to my knuckles, still split and crusted with blood from punching the bar last night.
“May I?” His hand hovers over the bruising, waiting.
I nod once, watching as he touches me with careful fingers, clinical in their assessment as they trace each bruise, testing for tenderness. He pulls back the instant I tense, reading my body’s signals without having to be told.
“Bruised, but no fractures,” he concludes, hands retreating to neutral territory on my stomach. “You should clean those knuckles, though.”
Finished with his examination, he bends to kiss my shoulder, the contact brief but deliberate. His lips move to my neck next, hot and lingering as my pulse quickens.
A rumble builds in my chest, approval vibrating up my throat. My hand finds his hip, fingers digging into the firm muscle to pull him closer. The memory of last night’s kiss returns, the electric current that ran between us when our mouths met, and I want to test if it was a fluke or real.
I turn my head, capturing his lips with mine. The contact sends the same shock through my system, nerve endings firing with pleasure signals that my brain struggles to process. His mouth opens under the pressure, tongue twining with mine as his body shifts closer.
We roll toward each other, limbs tangling as our bodies align. His skin burns hot, chest to chest, hips to hips. His cock nudges my thigh, hard with a morning arousal to match my own.
His fingers grip my hipbone, using the leverage to rock into me. The friction pulls a groan from deep in my chest, the sound muffled by our continuing kiss.
I want to be inside him again. Want the tight heat of his body gripping my dick, want to watch as pleasure wipes away thought and reason. But memories of last night’s roughness flash through my mind, the tears tracking down his temples, the way his body tensed with pain beneath mine.
I pull back from the kiss, our lips separating with a soft, wet sound that sends another pulse of heat to my groin.
“You okay?” Gabriel’s pupils dilate, black swallowing hazel as his hand slides from my hip to my lower back.
“I hurt you last night.” I swallow hard, my throat clicking. “I don’t want to make the same mistake.”
The worry eases. “You didn’t hurt me. Not in any way that matters.”
“I made you cry.” My thumb traces the path where tears ran down his cheeks, the skin now dry and warm beneath my touch.
“And then you made me come so hard I saw stars.” His hips rock against me again. “Let’s focus on the good parts.”
An unexpected laugh escapes me, and my dick throbs in agreement, still resting on his thigh, still wanting what I’m afraid to take.
Gabriel’s hand slides between our bodies, fingers wrapping around both our lengths, gripping them together. The contact sends a jolt up my spine, and my hips thrust forward.
“Next time,” he moans, hand working between our bodies, “we can try it the other way. If you want.”
Next time.
His certainty that this isn’t a one-time thing should trigger alarms and send me running for the safety of isolation. Instead, it settles inside me like a promise I never knew I wanted to hear.
There will be a next time. And I’ll be gentler. I’ll take my time. I’ll learn the dips and rises of his body until I map every place that draws a gasp or shudder of pleasure from him.
For now, I lose myself in the building pressure of his hand around us both, in the heat of his mouth as he kisses me again, in the unfamiliar peace of waking up beside someone.
I grab his hip for leverage as we grind together, his hand shuttling up and down our lengths, our pre-cum slicking his palm.
As his strokes speed up, my breath comes in ragged gasps, and heat coils tight in my groin, building with each slick slide.
I rock into his fist, my dick throbbing against his, the friction undoing me fast.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, rough with arousal. “Let go for me, Saint.”
His words push me over the edge, permission and praise wrapped in that honeyed drawl. I come with a strangled groan, spilling hot over his fingers. He works me through it, drawing out each pulse until I’m spent and shaking.
With a twist of his wrist, he comes, too, adding to the mess between our bodies. His mouth slackens with pleasure, lips parting on a silent cry. Transfixed by his release, I dive forward, sucking the gasps from his lips until his body stops shaking.
My breath comes in heavy gasps, chest rising and falling as my heart rate slows. Gabriel collapses beside me, his skin slick with sweat, cum cooling on both our stomachs.
The release emptied my mind, leaving a rare moment of quiet in place of the constant buzz of thoughts, impulses, and memories that usually fight for space in my head.
Gabriel’s arm flops across his eyes, blocking out the morning light. His chest rises and falls in rhythm with mine, our bodies synced in the aftermath of another mind-blowing orgasm. The silence between us is comfortable rather than strained, neither of us rushing to fill it with meaningless words.
When Gabriel’s arm slides away from his face, his head turns on the pillow, his attention drifting past me to where a single framed print now hangs crooked from when I slammed him into the wall last night.
“Freedom From Fear,” he murmurs.
I shift to look at the Norman Rockwell print of parents tucking two children into bed. A newspaper with war headlines is clutched in the father’s hand, and kept hidden from the sleeping kids.
“Is that what it’s called?” My throat tightens with unexpected emotion. “I didn’t know.”
“Out of all the others he painted, why do you have this one hanging in your room?” he asks.
I consider deflecting, giving some bullshit answer about liking the colors or the frame. But the way he stares at the painting, almost as if it offends him, pulls the truth from me before I can stop it.
“It shows this perfect family.” The words scrape my throat. “These parents tucking in their kids like nothing bad could ever touch them. But it’s bullshit.”
My fingers curl into the sheets. “The world is fucked, and nothing is safe. These parents think they’re protecting their kids by hiding the newspaper, but the danger still exists whether the kids are aware or not.”
“We have the same print at Rockford Manor.” Gabriel shifts closer, his knee bumping mine beneath the blanket. “Right outside the family wing.”
The confession surprises me. From what I’ve seen of Rockford Manor, the walls are covered in expensive abstract art or oil portraits of their ancestors, not the photorealism of Rockwell’s works.
“My father used to say it represented the family duty to shield the younger generation from the uglier aspects of our legacy.” Gabriel’s mouth twists, bitterness leaking through his usual composure. “Parents keeping secrets from their kids, thinking it protects them. But it’s a lie.”
His venom catches me off guard. This isn’t the pampered club patron or even the capable operative from the docks. This is someone damaged in ways I hadn’t considered, harboring resentments that mirror my own.
“What secrets?” I ask, curiosity overriding my usual reluctance to pry.
Gabriel stiffens, and his expression shutters.
“Nothing specific.” The lie falls flat between us. “Just the usual family bullshit.”
He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his back a wall between us. The muscles along his spine tense as he stretches, the moment of intimacy evaporating.
“I’m going to shower.” He stands, not looking back at me as he heads for the bathroom. I expect him to ask me to join him, but the invitation never comes.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound of water running follows seconds later. I stay in bed, arm tucked behind my head, staring at the Rockwell print that now connects us in unexpected ways.